Eye of the End
by Petrichor
Summary: Only a soul's passion can separate body and soul...


The fence around her house was high. It was built of a sturdy old wood, a certain kind which is next to impossible to find nowadays though it once was a cornerstone of trade throughout most of Asia. Those days, everyone in the world built their fleets and temples and palaces out of this legendary timber—well, as much as they could afford it. People have, in general, a curious tendency to find answers to life's problems in the strangest of places, and that was how the wood (which was already famous anyways) became embellished with the stuff that great stories are made of. Rumor had it that the trees had been taken from the forests of the gods, that their resin could return the dead to life, that the bark would heal any disease—though these stories are probably as true as most other stories.

There was something to be said, however, about the way the sturdy walls of fence completely stifled the sounds of the agitated metropolis which swarmed around it. It was also remarkable the way unpleasant city smells like filthy sun-blasted asphalt and rotting garbage never crossed the property lines. In fact, you might say that the small square patch of land—sticking out from neighboring skyscrapers like a storm cloud in a desert—was so completely _different_ from its surroundings that it was almost as if it wasn't there at all.

The petite middle-aged woman who had nervously entered the humble gates was much too preoccupied to notice these things, though her worried frown softened somewhat as the hush of a tranquil garden erased the chaos of blaring car horns, and the smell of quiet growing replaced the oily stench of the noonday city. She clutched a crumpled slip of paper in her aging hands like a safety rope as she made her way past cool trees filled with chirruping cicadas and calm pools which reflected the blueness of the sky between enormous blossoms. She found it more surprising that such a vibrantly alive garden could be contained in such a small space than the fact she had never noticed it in town before—but after all, she didn't go out much.

Nestled in the back of the verdant garden stood an ancient house which dominated its surroundings with quiet intensity. It was older than the wooden fence whose timber had been brought across twinkling oceans, and it was even older than the garden's lofty trees which had sent down sprawling roots long before the world had grown sluggish and cold. The house was an edifice which neither time could erode nor a city's greed consume. Free from the petty affairs of daily life and even the cataclysmic coming and going of nations, it sat immobile and vigilant, watching over the garden and the adjoining street with an unhurried expression.

There is considerable doubt whether any of the time-worn secrets or the true magics of old have survived the jadedness of recent generations, but if there could be any place left in the world where the innermost wish of one's heart could be granted, this was it.

Suddenly, the front door jutted outward. Two lanky girls—probably sisters by the look of it—were heaving with all their might to open it, though it wasn't obvious why: the door looked no heavier than an ordinary door even if it was carved with intricate designs. The two of them strained and pushed and shrieked gleefully as it inched grudgingly outwards, cheering wildly when it finally flew open with an ungraceful bang, clattering against the side of the house and swinging, slightly askew, back on its hinges. Smiling, the two of them linked hands and skipped off of the raised porch, running to meet their guest. Their skin was surprisingly smooth and cool to the touch as they linked arms with her, and when they gazed up and smiled, swinging playfully on her arms, their eyes looked somewhat glassy as if they were ill. Each wore a hair band decorated with fake cat ears, though the hair band was covered by meticulously combed ringlets.

"Welcome!" they chirruped in unison as they began pulling the woman towards the house like a favorite relative. The three of them hurried over the porch and headlong through the front door. For a disorienting moment, the woman felt like she was being shoved through a thin film of elastic air which stretched and stretched but wouldn't let her through until—with an odd feeling that made her itch all over—the sensation tore under the constant forcing and the they all stumbled into the shadowy foyer. And there she met the boy.

Even in the dusky sunlit interior of the home, she could see him blushing furiously. As if it weren't obvious enough, the two dark cat-like ears which poked through hair atop his head were twitching uncomfortably; by the look of it, he had just bolted towards the front door to meet her and was still catching his breath. Though he looked well into his teens, his face looked innocent—as if he took everything you said seriously even when you were joking.

"W-welcome to our shop." he blurted, bowing deeply."Please follow me." She nodded, and he began to walk stiffly into the interior of the shop, glancing back at her occasionally past his handsome, agitatedly swishing tail. In the back of the house, they found an enormous sliding door which was richly painted with mythical creatures. It slid open discreetly as they approached, releasing a wave of sickly-sweet perfume which inexplicably redoubled the woman's nervousness. The boy gestured towards the entrance and stepped politely aside to let her in.

Sitting with utmost composure in a gilded throne-like chair was a sorceress. There was no doubt about it, the way her heavy-lidded eyes reflected unseen stars and basked in uncast shadows as she glanced up from the cup of tea nestled in her hands. Her hair fell in a dark curtain across her wide shoulders, and she had draped herself in layers of flowing fabrics that only barely managed to conceal the taut alabaster skin beneath. Those lips which gleamed like blood pulled into a secretive smile as she stood to greet her guest. Here was another surprise—the witch towered over the woman, whose fragile hands were folded nervously.

"Have a seat" spoke the witch softly, indicating the empty chair across from her. Tremulously, the woman moved to sit down, but a glittering movement in the shadows of the room caught her attention. Hanging in a recession behind the chair was an enormous golden frame. It held a picture of an endlessly spiraling wheel—a circle within a circle within a circle, inwards and inwards as far as the eye could distinguish. Even as the woman watched, the picture fluctuated and changed: the wheel turned slowly on its axis as a kaleidescope of color separated and re-knotted and branched off in new patterns. For a moment, she was so astounded that the painting moved, she didn't notice the small mechanical bronze birds which roved around the edges of the frame. These birds each had a body of glass, and each glass was filled with..._sand_. The "painting" was actually an intricate design made of multi-colored sands! At the top, birds trickled their colorful contents into the artwork below, and at the bottom, the same birds filled their glasses with the sand that flowed out from the base of the frame. It was exceptionally beautiful, and masterfully made. Reluctantly, the woman tore her gaze from the hypnotically swirling patterns and sat in the chair offered to her.

"I am Yūko Ichihara." said the sorceress as she began pouring tea into the empty cup across the table from her. After watching the tea leaves swirl in her cup for a moment to steady herself, the woman stammered "…Are you…can you…help me?" She proffered the slip of paper in her hand, looking completely out of her element. On it, Yūko saw, someone had scrawled an address in a flurry of ink. "I mean, I heard about you…"

"I can." purred the sorceress, "For I am the Witch of Ceylon, and anything which has been lost in this wide world is within my power to return."

Rather than being strengthened by this news, the woman's relief crumpled her as if all of her hopes had been riding on this visit and all the strain of carrying such a burden had finally been lifted. With the end of her struggles near, her eyes looked weary yet glistened with relief.

"Then…" the woman reached into the purse slung over her shoulder and pulled out a small photograph—still in a slightly dusty frame as if she had been too afraid to remove it, too afraid to even polish the graying wood. With desperate intensity, she held it out to the witch who eyed it neutrally. "My sons…" she said simply, her voice cracking with emotion. The hand which held the frame soon began to tremble, and she snatched the photo back into the recesses of her purse. Her chest was heaving. "Please…bring them back to me."

The Witch of Ceylon examined her downcast face and allowed a moment before she began to speak. Plumes of scented oils swirled around them in the gloomy silence.

"No spell may awaken the dead." she pronounced at last.

Tonelessly, the woman replied. "But…my younger one? Ritsuka?"

Yūko leaned over the tea table which separated them and gently tilted the woman's crestfallen face upwards so that they stared eye-to-eye. Her robes shifted and glimmered. "Each soul is tightly bound to a body, and each body is bound to a soul, so that each one becomes a mirror of the other. But even the union of body and soul may be broken, if there is another bond which can overpower it. That is the riddle of death, the riddle of hatred, the riddle of love. For nothing can remove a soul except a soul's passion—that is the answer which lies at the end of things. Though no spell may restore a soul which has left this existence, your sons' souls are still part of the world for now."

Startled by this revelation, the woman pulled away from Yūko and leapt to her feet. "You mean..._both _of them are still alive? You can find them?"

"Yes." Despite having good news to tell, Yūko's face looked calm, almost severe. "It is simply a matter of the price."

A sinking feeling lodged within the woman's chest, but she wouldn't let it dampen her spirits. "I-I'll...of course I'll pay anything it takes..." She reached instinctively for her purse, even though it hadn't been that full lately.

The Witch of Ceylon waved away these remarks with elegant bangled hand "All desires come with a cost. My price is simply the exact cost of your desire." Uncertain, the woman simply stood still, her hand still on her purse's clasp. The witch continued, "There are two kinds of memories, the memories of the body, and the memories of the soul. The more memories there are, or the more powerful the recollection, the tighter the bond between body and soul, for common experience unites them."

Her eyes flashed. "The soul which now resides in your younger son's body—you despise it, don't you?" The woman's face flushed a deep maroon before growing eerily calm. Unapologetically, she whispered "I want my Ritsuka back."

"And yet you have dealt harm to another soul, and the body which contains it." Unwilling to reply, the woman simply stared at the wooden floor, her veins filled with helpless burning anger. "This action, like all others, has come at a price. With all that hatred and pain, you have branded an imprint of this new soul onto his body, and it will be that much more difficult to extract."

"But it's still possible?" The woman could not help the remark which slipped through her impassive mask.

"Yes." A feeling of destiny, of doom, of all the weight of ages and unbreakable justice suddenly pressed upon them, making it nearly impossible to breathe. The candles which filled the room seemed to flicker, and the strands of incense smoke which curled upwards had twisted in an unseen breeze. The sorceress's eyes blazed as her voice welled up from immeasurable depths of power.

"The price of restoring your younger son will be the bond which unites you." Several strands of jet-black hair fluttered across her calm face and lidded eyes. "Your son, who with body and soul has remembered you, who has has longed for your love and acceptance, will do so no longer. His loyalty will cease to belong to you, though his body and soul will remember you still."

Tears streaming down her face, the lady nodded as if she had already steeled herself for that very thing.

"As for the price of your elder son..." Yūko leaned forward until the woman could feel her sultry breath on the side of her neck. She whispered quietly in the woman's ear, glancing at the sliding door behind which the boy with cat ears still stood eavesdropping. The woman's eyes bulged and she shuddered at what she heard, but she once again nodded hopelessly in acceptance. In an instant, the fluttering breeze died down and the room returned to normal. Behind the woman, the wheel of sand continued to turn resolutely on its axis.

"I shall grant your wish." spoke the Witch with finality, and she stood. The woman took this as an indication that their meeting was over and, sure enough, the door slid open as she rose to leave. Looking back at the sorceress with a twisted expression of gratitude and despair, she stammered to speak through choking sobs which now overtook her, "W-when will...I mean, how will I..." she trailed off, unable to finish. Hot tears flowed freely from her tired eyes — there was too much grief for any degree of social etiquette to control. The Witch said nothing, though the boy who stood by the door looked pained as though he wished to help but could not.

"Unfortunately, I do not plan to stay here for much longer. In fact, it is entirely possible that we will never speak again." She studied the woman who was now much too emotional for words. "But as soon as both halves of your wish have been paid for in full, it shall be granted."

With that, the boy silently led the woman out of the house and onto the front lawn where the two girls were bent over a game of marbles. As the woman made her way alone out of the garden and past the high fence, where the smell of a rotten city engulfed her once more and the sound of blaring car horns tore through the air, she looked back at the house which had ultimately saved and doomed her forever.

All she saw was a fence of cheap whitewashed timber, the kind which is used not to protect but to hide its disgraceful contents from the world before being abandoned altogether. The narrow lot of overgrown weeds and long-neglected trash was as empty as her own used-up heart. She walked home to make dinner for her son.


End file.
